


everything but the kitchen sink

by flourchildwrites



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gaming AU, Gen, Humor, In Vino Veritas, Interrupted Declaration of Love, M/M, Massage, Parental!Edwin, Pregnancy Kink, Summer Camp AU, Tumblr Prompts, Vacation, fairy tale AU, short one shots, star-crossed lovers, “It’s not you. It’s my enemies.”
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:12:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/flourchildwrites
Summary: A collection of short stories based on tumblr prompts.  Various genres and ships.  See chapter titles for details.Chapter 5: Parental!Edwin, Massage and Pregnancy Kink“Not so fast, Edward,” Winry interjected, gently stepping back and placing a firm hand on her husband’s chest. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder. Then, you can take me upstairs and have your way with your bloated, pregnant wife.”The glint in Ed’s eyes was inexplicably obscene. “That a promise?”Winry rolled her eyes despite the smirk on her lips.  “Take a seat, Fullmetal.”





	1. Hyuroi, Summer Camp AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This [FANFICTION TROPE MASH-UP](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183225046841/fanfiction-trope-mash-up) prompt was requested by [bearonthecouch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/works), and it is my birthday gift to dear bear! For bear, on (or around) their birthday, I’ll be more than happy to stray from the royai path and write some hyuroi! Bear requested numbers **19 (summer camp AU)** and **59 (interrupted declaration of love)**. Happy (belated) Birthday Bear! Wishing you all the best in the coming year and many happy returns.
> 
> Like what you read? Send me a prompt on my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). All likes, [reblogs](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183234972296/an-thanks-bearonthecouch-for-you-on-or), kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated.

Signing up as a Lake Shamballa summer camp counselor had been a no brainer for 19-year-old Roy Mustang.  Free room and board.  An entire six weeks away from the hustle and bustle of Central City.  Rubbing elbows with the privileged offspring of Amestris’s most prominent citizens. It was an undeniably sweet gig for a kid who grew up changing out the taps behind his aunt’s bar during his semester breaks.

And while the transition to camp life was not without its share of mosquito bite bumps and hiking-related bruises, Roy found he enjoyed the outdoors more with each passing day.  At 6:02 a.m. on the dot, Roy lumbered out of bed and jammed his feet into an old pair of running shoes that, he suspected, smelled worse than they looked.  With a bleary-eyed glance in the mirror, Roy slipped on a weather-beaten cap over his tousled dark hair.  He never expected to become an aficionado of morning runs through the camp’s dewy nature trails, but then Roy never expected to meet someone like Maes Hughes.

Maes wasn’t like the other camp counselors.  Though certainly from Central City’s upper crust, there wasn’t a condescending bone in his tall, athletic body.  He laughed gregariously when Roy recalled his foolhardy antics from his first year of college, and the allure of his sharp tongue was only matched by the insightful gaze emanating from his bright, amber eyes.  Idealistic Roy Mustang, smart and scrappy public school scum, a lauded ladies man (or so they said), was utterly smitten from the word “hello.”

Like clockwork, Maes emerged from the neighboring cabin and jaunted across the manicured lawn toward the counselor’s quarters of lucky cabin 13, Roy’s private lodging.  From his open window, the dark-haired man watched Maes cross the green grass through a pair of heavy-lidded eyes that lingered over his friend’s lean build.  Roy smiled wryly as he imaged running his thumb across Maes’s scruffy jawline, passing a hand through his hopelessly spiky hair in pursuit of a good morning kiss.  He could have done it that morning,  _should_ have done it every morning since he fell hard and fast for Maes, but for one tiny, insignificant detail:  Maes had no idea how he felt.

Today was the day that would change.

Roy thrust open the screen door and bounded down the stairs with butterflies in his stomach and his heart on his sleeve.  He readied himself to greet Maes with his trademark devil-may-care smirk and then sprint, shamelessly, down their usual jogging trail toward an arresting vista view of Lake Shamballa.  Roy glanced at his sports watched and made a mental note of the time, 6:13 a.m.  In 22 minutes, the sun would rise over the horizon, reflected across the calm waters of the lake in a saturated splash of bright orange and rosy hues.  They had just enough time to make it there for the big reveal, the moment when Roy would shed his carefully crafted persona and confess to feelings than ran deeper than friendship or brotherhood.

Roy had to know what it felt like to be held in Maes’s accepting embrace.  He needed the constancy of his friend’s penetrating gaze and craved to be seen as something other than a smart boy from the wrong side of the track by the only person within about 100 miles that could provide such validation.  Roy Mustang wanted Maes Hughes, and if he couldn’t have him, at least he’d be consoled by the fact that he took his chance in the grandest, most romantic way possible.

“Mornin’ Roy,” Maes greeted, flashing his fellow counselor an immaculate set of pearly whites coupled with a sly wink.  “How’s it hanging?”

“Ah, you know,” Roy responded scratching the base of his ballcap as he relished their flirty banter.  “Better now that you’re here.  Should we get to it?”

“Of course,” he answered, “but before we leave I’ve got to tell you something I’ve been meaning to mention for a while.  I- I know it’s presumptuous of me but just…  Can you keep an open mind?”

Roy’s pulse fluttered; his stomach turned.  He approached Maes with a tender reverence that (he hoped) said the words that their professional relationship discouraged.  “Of course, Maes. I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you too.”

“Oh good,” Maes laughed, seemingly relieved.  “Then, I guess you know or realized something like this was happening.  Hell, I’ve had inquiries from across the whole camp.”

“The whole camp knows?” Roy asked, unable to suppress the shock that flashed across his dark eyes.

Maes chuckled.  “We haven’t exactly been discreet.  It was some of your kids, actually, that brought the issue to my attention, and after hearing them out, I sympathize with their concerns.”

“Concerns?” Roy echoed.  His palms grew sweaty as he considered the implication of Maes’s words.  He knew something like this might happen.  Maes might not feel the same way as him; he might not be ready to dignify the furtive glances and languid touches of late.  “The last thing I would ever want to do is make you feel uncomfortable.”

The furrowed brows on Maes’s forehead gave Roy pause.  “I lead the campers around all day.  Why would I feel uncomfortable taking them out for a sunrise run?”

Flabbergasted, Roy’s jaw nearly hit the ground.  “A what?”

“They didn’t tell you?” Maes said with a tone of disbelief.  “Some of the other students are joining us for our morning run from now until the end of the summer.  What are you talking about?”

It wasn’t ideal. The dim, grassy lawn wasn’t majestic or moving in the slightest, but Maes had asked a question Roy couldn’t ignore.  It was now or never, he resolved.  Inwardly, Roy took a deep breath, summoned every last ounce of his courage and-

“Morning Counselor Bastard, Mr. Maes!  Ready for our run?”

No, it couldn’t be.

Roy pivoted in a state of disbelieving rage to find the slight silhouette of his most challenging camper, then wide awake at an hour when Roy had never seen him so much as twitch in his sleep.  Yes, there stood a blonde boy who, despite his small stature and above-average intelligence, had given him hell since the moment Roy informed him that the bunk assignments were nonnegotiable, and he couldn’t move to the same cabin as his brother.

“Morning Edward!” Maes greeted cheerfully.  “Do you have your running shoes on?”

“Sure thing,” the young boy replied with an offhand gesture toward his squeaky clean cross-trainers.  “We’re just waiting on Al, Paninya and Winry.  It sure would have been easier to coordinate if we had been placed in the same cabin.  Don’t you think Mr. Mustang?”

Roy sneered through a set of gritted teeth, not trusting himself to utter a word for fear of his well-paying employment.  Though he remained uncharacteristically silent, the smirk on Edward Elric’s face spoke volumes, and Roy’s mind rewound the past week to determine the exact moment where he’d let his carefully crafted plans slip.  Perhaps, it was the phone call he’d made to Riza a week ago or his letters home to Aunt Chris in which he’d all but pined over Maes like a lovesick pre-teen.  Maybe, it was the countless handwritten drafts of the speech he planned to make to Maes which Roy had ultimately discarded in the communal trash can along with his research about the exact time the sun would rise.  Either way, Roy knew he was fucked, and not at all in the way he had hoped.

And while his means remained elusive, Ed’s motive, smugly smeared across his annoying face came through loud and clear.  It said:  If I can’t sleep where I want to, neither can you.


	2. Havolina, Gaming AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This [FANFICTION TROPE MASH-UP](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183225046841/fanfiction-trope-mash-up) prompt was requested by [Tui_and_La](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tui_and_La/pseuds/Tui_and_La/works). They requested numbers **66 (it’s not you, it’s my enemies)** and **77 (in vino veritas)** with a havolina ship. I threw in a side of royai because... reasons.
> 
> Like what you read? Send me a prompt on my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). All likes, [reblogs](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183275963316/ooooh-i-saw-havolina-on-the-tags-d-d-d-66-and), kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind I know very little about Call of Duty and video game tournaments in general. Forgive the inaccuracies and suspend your disbelief as this fic will focus on what happens around the tournament as opposed to the gameplay itself.

“This is bullshit, and you know it!” Rebecca screeched.  With furrowed brows and nostrils flaring, she stared down Roy Mustang, captain of the front runner team in the Call of Duty tournament.  How dare he try to poach Riza, Rebecca’s actual friend, her teammate and the best damn sniper in the amateur bracket, right under Rebecca’s nose!  She wouldn’t have it, and that pretty boy had another thing coming to him if he thought she’d let Riza go on her merry way without a fight.

“This isn’t poaching.  It’s a couple after dinner drinks, Becks,” Roy said with amused exasperation.  “Riza’s not my mark. She’s my girlfriend.” As if to make some salient point - that Rebecca was completely uninterested in, the dark-haired man slipped an arm around Riza.  His fingers stretched, seeking purchase on her slender waist as he pulled the blonde closer, too close. In the darkness of the hotel bar, Rebecca’s equally dark eyes flashed dangerously.

“She’s not your girlfriend during this competition,” Rebecca lectured.  To drive her point home, she brandished her pointer finger in Roy’s direction and thrust it toward the center of his chest.  “While both our teams are in the running, she is an important member of the East City Strikers, and this year we  _ will _ see you in the finals.”

“Enough,” Riza interjected.  Ever the picture of poise under pressure, she wiggled out of Roy’s arms and grasped Rebecca’s bicep, leading her down the long granite bar.  When Riza began to speak again, her voice was just above a whisper.

“You two got off on the wrong foot, I admit; however, Roy has been nothing but friendly toward you since we started dating,” Riza stressed, “Also - I say this with a lot of love - you are starting to sound like a deranged lunatic.  This is just a game.”

“No, it’s a 500,000 cenz grand prize,” Rebecca retorted defensively, not caring to control the volume of her voice.  “You promised there would be no fraternization during the tournament.”

Riza rolled her eyes and sighed, heavily.  “The tournament starts tomorrow morning. After the opening ceremony I will be 100% committed to the East City Strikers, but tonight-” Riza paused; she glanced over her shoulder in Roy’s direction, gazing at her insufferable boyfriend with a pair of soft eyes that she wore only for him.  “I’m going to have a few drinks with my boyfriend. And before you ask, yes, I intend to spend the night with him. And furthermore, because we are not in kindergarten, you are going to back off and act like an adult about it. Okay?”

Becca crossed her arms with an agitated huff, barely able to meet Riza’s pointed look.  She hated Roy and all of Team Mustang. She hated that, after the East City Strikers' crushing defeat in the semifinals last year, Roy had gone to great lengths to talk to Riza, inexplicably seduce her and then, just to add insult to injury, ask her to be his girlfriend.  The very notion of this grievous injustice gnawed at Rebecca’s pride. For as certain as the sun would rise, she believed it to be a long con to ensure Team Mustang’s supremacy at the tournament this year.

“Fine,” Rebecca muttered.

She watched Riza cross the glitzy hotel bar, hand in hand with the competition and did the only thing a well-adjusted hardcore competitor with a grudge to maintain could do.  She ordered another pinot noir and told the bartender to leave the bottle.

* * *

One by one, the other members of the East City Strikers attempted to lighten Becca’s mood, except for Olivier who suggested they turn in early for the evening to leave Rebecca alone with her anger management issues.  Sheska followed Olivier’s lead, hoping to the tune of her command like a pup adhering to its master’s will. Maria stuck around the bar for a few more minutes to offer Rebecca a few well-worded pieces of advice.

“When Olivier tells you to lighten up, it’s time to rethink your strategy, my friend,” Maria opined, knocking back the rest of her cosmo.  “Ri is a smart girl. She knows how to compartmentalize.”

Rebecca took another sip of the dark wine that matched her lipstick to a tee.  “I care too much, Maria,” she explained. “Unless everyone’s plans change, this will be the East City Strikers’ last tournament.  I want to go out at the top of our game.”

“Then just play the best you can,” Maria stated matter-of-factly like it was a simple thing to do.  “If the best we can do is to get beat in the semifinals again by the team that goes on to win it, I’m satisfied.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s why you’re team captain, and I’m just your average first-person shooter enthusiast.  Ri brings the deadly accuracy, Sheska’s got that crazy agility, Olivier gets us the little real life luxuries that keep us sane, but you have the fire.  You inspire us to go up against the boys every year and spank ‘em until they beg for their mama. We’ve come a long way from East City, Becks. We couldn’t have gotten here without you.”

With a flushed face, Rebecca grinned, comforted by her teammate’s thoughtful perspective.  “And what would you say you do for us?”

Maria sat back from the bar and smirked in a way that crinkled the beauty mark under her eye.  “I give the good advice, and my advice for you tonight is to take advantage of the fact that your roommate isn’t coming back.”

* * *

Rebecca struggled to take Maria’s words of wisdom to heart, but the emptier her bottle of wine became, the easier it was to let her guard drop.  Her taste buds drowned in the tart tang of cranberry with hints of tobacco. Her competitive glare grew blurry around the edges as the pop music funneled in through the speakers went straight to her hips.  As the time ticked by, the hotel bar became flush with men of all models and makes, but like a hunter taking stock of the available prey, Rebecca waited patiently for signs of intelligent life.

As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one on the prowl.

“Hey, you’re Catalina, right?”

Rebecca swiveled on her barstool to better view the owner of the husky, baritone voice.  The sight that met her was definitely easy on her eyes. The fair-haired stranger’s frame was muscular, especially his well-defined arms which extended from the unseasonable short sleeves of a black graphic tee.  Rebecca’s eyes flitted over his figure in a flirtatious manner as she swirled the wine in her glass and finally met his blue stare.

“Maybe” she shot right back at him.  “Who’s asking?”

The young man chuckled lightly under his breath and shuffled his feet.  “I’m really no good at this am I?” he said, scratching the back of his head in a way that flexed his chest muscles through the flimsy cotton.  “My name’s Jean. I couldn’t help but notice that your friends left a little while ago, and seeing as mine ditched me too, I was wondering if you’d like some company.”

Rebecca’s head tilted to the side as she fought the urge to bite her bottom lip.  She patted the seat next to her casually, inviting Jean to sit. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage, Jean,” she said, relishing the way his name rolled off her tongue.  “I’m Catalina, though I prefer Rebecca. Have we met before?”

“No,” he replied, sliding onto the stool.  “Not formally, anyway. I’ve seen you play a few times, and I’ve always meant to talk to you.  I remember your name Catalina_the_wine_mixer. It’s unique, a Step Brothers reference, right?”

Rebecca groaned playfully, covering her forehead with her free hand.  “It is,” she admitted sheepishly. “The name sounded so cool when I first started playing, and after my first tournament, it stuck.  I’d change it if I could, but you know… name recognition means something.”

“Tell me about it,” Jean sympathized.  “Between this year and last, I found my way to the gym and kicked a few bad habits.”  Jean scratched at the nicotine patch peeking out the sleeve of his shirt. “Now, it’s like I’m a complete stranger.”

“So what’s your screen name?” she asked with genuine interest.

“TheJeanMachine.”

Rebecca laughed so hard snorted.  “Don’t take that the wrong way. It’s cute and... a little familiar.”

“Oh, I agree.  It’s terrible, but I can’t change it now,” he stated.

“Why not?  Name recognition?”

“Because it made you smile.”

Rebecca Catalina was smitten.  Between the gregarious crinkle framing Jean’s baby blue eyes, his adorable country accent and their witty banter, she’d never stood a chance.  All things considered, Rebecca thought it was nothing short of kismet that their paths had crossed on this, the calm before the storm. The one and only time she’d ever dared to let her hair down at the tournament.

“Maybe I’m too hard on my team,” Becca mused, allowing maudlin emotion to taint her giddy buzz.  “We haven’t made it official, but this is probably going to be The East City Strikers’ last year.  Riza, our sniper, is good enough to go pro if she wanted to, but the rest of us… We’ll have to give this up and focus on boring, practical careers when we graduate.  Except for Olivier, the scary one. She’d be the first to tell you that her trust fund lets her do whatever the hell she wants.”

“Your sniper’s good,” Jean admitted, “but she’s got competition.  That sniper from Team Mustang, for example. I think he’s pretty good.  You ever heard of that team? I think they won the amateur bracket last year.”

“They did,” Rebecca confirmed.  “I know of _ Team Mustang _ .  I mean, I don’t know any other them personally, except their captain,  _ Roy _ …  He’s dating Riza.  We lost to them in the semifinals last year, and one of those guys tried to congratulate me after, but I blew him off.”  Rebecca frowned at the memory. “I- I’m not a gracious loser. I called him scrawny and said he reeked of cigarettes. It was terrible of me.”

“Everyone has their bad days,” Jean said.  “And, come to think of it, you weren’t wrong on either account.  But let’s talk about something else. You said you weren’t good enough to be a pro.  Why? I’ve seen you rack up crazy amounts of points. Low on deaths and high on kills every single time.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca offered.  Suddenly, she wished she could place his username and compliment Jean on his gameplay in return, but the gears in her mind wouldn’t turn properly, influence by red wine and those blue, blue eyes.  “My record’s good, but I’m not twitchy enough. You know?”

Jean smirked.  The expression that flashed across his face made her toes curl.  “Don’t be so sure,” he said low and slow, “with the right technique, I bet you’d be very twitchy.”

Any other day, Rebecca would have rolled her eyes and walked away.  But her empty hotel room beckoned and Maria’s advice ricocheted through her mind.  Becca told herself that she deserved nice things from time to time. She needed to let loose, and Jean seemed nice, respectful even.  If he wasn’t she’d ask Olivier to kick his pretty boy ass all the way back to his family’s rural grocery store.

“Wanna show me your technique?” she chanced flirtatiously.  “It just so happens my roommate’s not coming back tonight. I’d like to see your moves.”

“What a coincidence,” Jean responded.  He slid from the stool and stood. His head ducked downward to capture Rebecca's plump lips in a searing kiss.  “I’d like to show them to you.”

* * *

It was a great day to be alive.  The sun was shining. The birds were singing, and Rebecca’s morning mountain dew tasted like victory.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Riza observed, popping a piece of fresh fruit into her mouth.

Becca didn’t deny it.  TheJeanMachine had certainly lived up to his name.  And if her uncharacteristic good mood didn’t give away the fact that she had gotten laid the night before, the trail of hickeys on her neck and chest, artfully concealed by one of Olivier’s vintage Hermes scarves, would have cleared up any lingering confusion.

“Wonder why that is,” Maria quipped with a playful nudge.  Even the stoic Olivier grinned at Rebecca over the brim her morning cup of Earl Grey. Sheska giggled scandalously as she polished off her turkey bacon.

“Alright ladies,” Rebecca declared.  She straightened her custom team jersey, and stood, ready to tackle the day.  “I checked the brackets this morning. Our first game is in the Shambala conference room against The Ishvalan Supremecy.  They’re good, especially that Scar guy, but we’ve got this! Let’s get there early and get a feel for the room.”

“Can we stop by the Aruego room first?” Riza asked hopefully.  “Roy’s team is playing there in a few minutes, and I’d just like to wave hello.”

“Sure.  Why not,” Rebecca merely shrugged to the collective astonishment of the East City Strikers.  “We can scope out the competition.”

The quintet of gamers made their way through the crowded hotel lobby and took the elevator to the fourth floor.  There, on the Aruego stage, Riza spotted Team Mustang, decked out in dark blue shirts opposite another formidable team dressed in black from head to toe, the Briggs Bears. A small audience had already gathered.  Starry-eyed fans and fierce competitors sat in between the two teams, gazing up at a huge monitor that showcased the player’s screens and scores.

It was easy to get lost in the sea of old and new faces, but Rebecca focused in on Team Mustang with a confident smirk.  Roy and the rest of his boys were going down, and Rebecca only hoped that the East City Strikers would be the ones to finally knocking them off their pedestal.  Sure, the Briggs Bears were also good, but Miles2Go’s reaction time was notoriously wanting, and that wasn’t even considering…

A familiar face caught Rebecca’s eye, sending a shockwave along the length of her spine.  Rebecca craned her neck, shifting in the crowd to get a better view of an unfamiliar face amongst Team Mustang.  And when, finally, she saw the fair hair and toned muscles of the man she’d spent the night with wearing Team Mustang blue, Becca’s temper flared.  The name… That familiar name… TheJeanMachine. The puzzle pieces sickeningly fell into place in a way that made her stomach drop.

“Oh, is that blonde guy new?” asked a nearby girl with equally blond hair.

Her companion, a short boy with a braided ponytail and a sophisticated automail arm scoffed.  “Shows how much you know, Winry,” he said. “That’s Jean Havoc. Team Mustang’s sniper. He’s been with them from the start but went on a health kick after last year.  Stopped smoking like a chimney and put on some muscle.”

“I bet he drinks his milk,” Winry responded, albeit under her breath.

Rebecca didn't want to hear another word.  She tore from the room, breath coming hard and fast as she weaved through the crowd.  Last year’s events flashed before her eyes enhanced by adrenaline, caffeine and the early morning light.  Jean had been the guy who tried to talk to her last year, and he’d most certainly known that last night when they’d…

“Ugghhhh!” Rebecca exclaimed, overcome with anger and ashamed of her impulsive behavior.  The young woman was so wrapped up in her internal conflict that she didn’t hear her teammate approach from behind.  Rebecca shrieked as she felt the pressure of Sheska’s hand on her shoulder.

“Good gracious, Becks,” Sheska said, straightening her glasses.  “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright?”

Rebecca looked back at her bespectacled teammate with a cold gleam in her dark eyes.  She vowed to get her revenge on Team Mustang at all costs. “It’s not you,” she said intently, narrowed eyes darting to the screen now prominently displaying TheJeanMachine in his element.  “It’s my enemies.”


	3. Havolina, Fairy Tale AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This [FANFICTION TROPE MASH-UP](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183225046841/fanfiction-trope-mash-up) prompt was requested by [ruikosakuragi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruikosakuragi). They requested numbers **64 (star crossed lovers)** and **25 (fairy tale AU)** with a havolina ship. As usual, I went overboard.
> 
> Like what you read? Send me a prompt on my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). All likes, [reblogs](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183369688146/64-and-25-on-the-au-mashup-i-know-i-usually-ask), kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated.

Whenever Jean Havoc went missing, his mother knew where to find him.  Up the stone staircases of the ivy encased castle, through corridors cloaked in thick tapestries bearing the Armstrong family crest and into the hall of portraits she went.  A young boy of 12, already a knight in training, stared up at a dark-haired woman with enigmatic eyes and a kind smile.  Squire Havoc didn’t put much stock in the written word; he preferred his daggers and swords, but he learned enough to decipher her name, etched into the golden plaque beneath the frame.

 _Princess Rebecca Talia of Catalina  
_ _La Belle au bois dormant_

The boy was favored amongst the castles’ inhabitants.  With sun-bleached hair, boyish freckles and a penchant for lighthearted mischief, he captured the hearts of every last scullery maid and made fast friends with the king’s young son, Alexander, a mere six months Havoc’s junior.  His mother, Claudia frowned, as she watched her boy munch a stolen croissant from the kitchens while he gazed longingly at the portrait.  Practically the only person who had not taken a shine to Jean was the queen, and her bedchambers were too close for comfort.

“Come away from there, my son,” Claudia beckoned.  “Come quickly before the queen sees you.  Why must you always return to this picture?”

Young Jean sighed, shoulders hunched forward as he tore his eyes away from the old portrait and heeded his mother’s call.  He didn’t know why he returned to gaze at the woman day after day, sneaking up from the stables with straw in his sleeves and mud on his boots.  But there was an undeniable connection, a pull in her directions like an invisible string of fate that bound them together no matter how far he strayed.  Still, Havoc knew his mother had no stomach for such fairy tales.

“I like to keep her company,” he answered.  “She’s so pretty, but her eyes are lonely.  Don’t you think?”

Claudia grabbed her son’s hand and guided him quickly through the castle with featherlight footsteps.  “I shouldn’t like to find you there again,” she said pointedly as if she knew he would return regardless.

Jean understood her perfectly.

* * *

Sixteen-year-old Jean visited her in the night when the light of the full moon spilled through the windows of the castle.  While other senior squires warmed the beds of those with bodies, the sins of the flesh never occupied Jean for long.  He loved them but left them with ease, ever drawn to the beloved portrait of Rebecca.

In his youth, Jean had always known to her to beautiful.  But as the years passed, the young squire noticed the fullness of her rosy lips and the blush in her cheek.  The swell of her breasts entranced him further, hastening lustful dreams where she led him toward a cobwebbed bedchamber.  Still, Rebecca’s chestnut eyes were her most alluring feature.  Ever pleading, wanting the company of a man who lived a century after the date scribbled in the corner of the painting.

“Who goes there?”  A booming voice interrupted Havoc’s reverie, sounding from down the hall.

Jean stirred, muscles sluggish from the day’s exertions.  It might have been better to turn tail, but the squire stood his ground.  He adopted an unassuming posture and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.

“Just me, Prince Alexander,” he announced.  “Squire Jean.”

The prince approached with heavy footfalls against the thick, red rug.  Even in his night clothes, Alex looked intimidating, burly and otherwise big.  His muscles tested the elasticity of his night tunic.

“I might have known,” he chuckled.  “You’re not here for my sister Catherine, are you?  I’d hate to have to challenge you to a duel, friend.”

“Too young,” Havoc smirked, cocky as ever.  “I’ve always liked this painting.  The woman in it is… There’s no one else like her.  Too bad she’s long gone.”

Alex grinned, too broadly for Jean to ignore.  He was a terrible liar at the best of times, and he loved gossip more than the washerwomen who babbled ceaselessly as they worked.  Havoc cast the prince an expectant sideways glance.

“Isn’t she dead?  What aren’t you telling me, Alex?”

The prince kept his own counsel for a moment, no more, before letting loose the story of sleeping beauty, Princess Rebecca, with glee.  Enchanted by a bitter alchemist as an infant, the young women fell victim to a ghastly prophecy.  In retaliation for her father’s hubris, she plucked her finger on a splinter while spinning flax and fell into an endless slumber.

“The sage Hohenheim managed to save her,” Alex explained, “but his counter-circle put the rest of Catalina to sleep in exchange for the princess’s life.  His prophecy foretells that she will sleep until the firstborn son of the Southern Kingdom’s 12th king wakes her. And should she rule with him standing by her side, their united kingdoms will be prosperous.”

Havoc could barely believe his ears.  He made a face dripping with incredulity.  “And how much longer does the princess have to wait?”

“Until I wake her with a kiss,” Alex replied.  “The firstborn son of the 12th king is me."

* * *

“ _Ami Jean, lève ton verre, et surtout, ne le renverse pas!  Et porte-le du frontibus…_ ”

King Alexander’s boisterous song rattled the dust from the rafters in the great hall as he drunkenly lumbered amidst the merrymaking.  The knighting ceremony was a festive occasion, beloved by the Southern Kingdom for its pageantry and splendor.  Sir Vato sat in deep conversation with a Northern scholar as Sir Roy and Dame Riza cut striking figures on the dance floor.  The pair’s silver armor glinted in the soft candlelight as they sashayed past Sir Kain, his arm draped over the shoulders of an attractive stable hand.

Claudia caught her son’s eye from around the curtain of the servant’s quarters.  The proud glint of her gaze spoke of volumes of pride, and Sir Jean grinned dashingly in response with a toast in her direction.  Claudia, whose once brown hair was now stained by starlight, would never be permitted to make merry with her son, but she watched, happy for his good fortune.  And Havoc silently thanked the anonymous benefactor who championed his cause all the way to knighthood.

“Sir Jean!”  Havoc turned, searching for the regal body matching the royal voice.  Its owner appeared behind him, dressed in decadent purple robes.

“King Alexander.”  Jean bowed with the balanced poise.

“None of that now, Havoc,” the king chuckled.  “We’ve known each other too long to be beholden to formalities.”

“My greatest ambition is to be of service to you, sire.”  The practiced words fell from his lips like butter, and not for the first time, Havoc wondered if he meant them.

“Then be of service, you shall,” he announced.  “My father has been dead these nine months, and I find myself in want of a queen before my coronation.  You will help me fetch her.”

Jean hadn’t visited Princess Rebecca’s portrait in quite some time, and at the age of 21, he had seemingly caught up to her.  Nevertheless, time had ticked by quicker since King Phillip has passed.  All eyes had turned to his friend, Alex.

“I hardly think you’d need me to help you find a wife,” Sir Jean offered.  “Lady Maria, for example, seems up to the task, and you like her, as I recall.”

“I do like her, but,” Alex pulled Jean in close, ducking his head to whisper in his ear, “Lady Maria will not bring prosperity to my kingdom and unite us with the Catalina territory.  I want  _her_.  I want Princess Rebecca.  Are you with me, Sir Jean?”

Who was a knight to refuse his king?

* * *

The bramble of thorns encasing the Catalina territory was worse than expected.  Poisonous fog stung the eyes and hovered low to the ground, claiming the lives of the wounded fallen.  Dark creatures of legend and myth with tattered black wings swooped from the skies to pierce intruders with their filthy claws. Early on, Sir Roy was blinded by the gas, and Dame Riza nearly bled out after being attacked by a vicious airborne beast.  Sirs Heymans and Kain escorted their fellows back to the relative safety of the Southern Kingdom.

And on the fifth day, madness set in; King Alexander was affected.

Summoning all his mental fortitude, Jean pressed onward with his ruler in tow.  He grabbed the reins of the king’s horse and followed his instincts.  The young knight’s sense of direction was clouded by muck and mire of his mind’s own creation, but something primal stirred, pulling Havoc along a clear path hidden in the quagmire.

At daybreak, he saw the tall turrets of an ancient castle, older and more massive than any building in the Southern Kingdom.  At the foot of the castle, royal guards in dust-covered tunics slumbered, slumped against the frigid stone; their weapons still poised in their hands.  The air was stale, but decay had inexplicably spared the old Kingdom of Catalina.  Every detail of daily life was still and held static, tinged with a purple glow, the calling card of alchemical mayhem.

“Oh mon Dieu! It’s true,” Jean gasped.  He took in greedy breaths of clean, if dank, air.  Alongside him, Alex followed suit, recovering from his mania.

“I should name my firstborn son after you if we live through this,” Alex said, coughing.  “How did you know that way?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” he quipped, ever the picture of ease under pressure.

Sir Jean and King Alexander navigated the winding staircases of Catalina castle.  Climbing ever higher, they sought the tallest turret of the highest tower, a room that kissed the edges of the darkened clouds overhead.  Somewhere along the way, Sir Jean’s feet began to move of their own accord.  Without rhyme or reason, he followed a siren’s call, a haunting tune that resonated in his heart.

At last, they found her chamber.  The walls were draped with dusty tapestries, and long canopy curtains fluttered in the dreary breeze, obscuring her sleeping figure from Jean’s prying eyes.  Alex moved forward, pushing the curtains aside.  He sat cautiously next to the sleeping woman with red lips, raven hair and slender fingers folded over her flowing red robes.  Princess Rebecca looked serene but deathly pale.  Havoc fought the compulsion to go to her as his friend and king laid a tender kiss on his beloved’s lips.

She remained as still and silent as the grave.

“I don’t understand,” Alex exclaimed.  “I am the firstborn son of the 12th king of the Southern Kingdom.  I am the only one who can break the spell.”

“It’s alchemy,” Sir Jean responded.  “Things go wrong in the best transmutations.  Princess Rebecca might be stuck in eternal slumber.”

The king left the princess’s bedside, not bothering to draw the curtain as he turned to leave.  “Some of my best knights were harmed during this foolish endeavor,” he growled, “and for what purpose?”

Jean couldn’t help himself.  He ducked under the gossamer curtain and kneeled next to the bed with a reverent posture.  Havoc brought the beauty’s hands to rest in his own, so cold and small.  He noticed the fabled splinter still lodged under her fingernail and plucked it out, regretting that she should be left so beautiful and unblemished against the current of time.

A breath. A twitch.  The delicate flutter of her eyelashes. 

“My king!  She wakes!”  Havoc exclaimed, standing up and pushing himself back from his intimate pose.  He embellished for good measure as Alex entered the room.  “You have awakened her.  See?”

Chestnut eyes, a heartbreaking shade of gold veiled in melancholy cream, fluttered open and stared into Jean’s face.  Her lips moved uncertainly, drawing Jean back to her bedside.  He smiled, as brilliantly as the sun.

“Don’t try to speak so soon,” Sir Jean cautioned.  He wet her lips tenderly with water from his canteen.

“My king,” she said, looking up at Jean.

“It is  _I_  who am your king,” Alex interrupted.  He scooped her up in his arms as Havoc pocketed the splinter along with his broken heart.

* * *

Prophecies were a funny thing, Jean decided, as he gazed up at the official portrait of the Southern Kingdom 12th king, hung proudly in the royal family’s private suite.  King Philip had always been kind to Havoc, favoring him to a fault, and promoting the child to squire at a young age despite his discipline issues.  What’s more, Havoc recalled that King Phillip had never once corrected foreign dignitaries when they mistook Jean and Alex for brothers.  Perhaps, Jean should have put the pieces together sooner.

Why say “the firstborn son of the 12th king” when one could simply say the 13th king?  Havoc knew the answer (for all the good it did).

Princess Rebecca Talia of Catalina was now Queen Rebecca, bound by the ties of holy matrimony to Jean’s childhood friend and king.  Alex was a good man and a just ruler.  It pained Havoc to harbor lustful thoughts for his friend’s bride.  Yet, however wrong it felt, the feel of Havoc’s mouth against the hollow of Rebecca’s throat eased his ailing conscience time and time again.

In any other life, their stars would have aligned.

“Must you always leave me so soon?” Rebecca cooed.  She drew the covers playfully over her swollen belly as she watched her lover dress, preparing to leave using the secret passageway behind the bureau.  Havoc tried not to stare, but it was hard to remember that, in the light of day, they could be no more than a queen and her knight.

“Damn,” he exhaled, half-tempted to throw it all away right then and there.  He pressed his nose into the soft lavender scent of Rebecca’s hair and caressed her waist possessively, in awe of the new life dwelling within her.  Like all their other stolen moments, Jean tucked the memory of holding her so close away for safe keeping.  Bedding a queen was hardly a luxury that a knight could regularly afford.

* * *

Princess Chloe was christened on a blustery Autumn morning just as the leaves began to fall from their trees.  Naturally, King Alexander and Queen Rebecca were wary, refusing all gifts from the alchemists in attendance, including the famed Brothers Elric, for fear of history repeating itself.  The ceremony was brief but beautiful, drawing attendees from across the four kingdoms.  Banners in the great hall proudly displayed the Southern Kingdom’s union with the rediscovered Catalina territory, and as far as anyone besides the queen and her favorite knight knew, there was no better symbol of that unity than the princess.

Sir Jean stood sentry beside the Queen, watching over Rebecca as their newborn infant suckled at her mother’s breast.  It wasn’t much, Havoc knew, but it would have to be enough.  For as long as his body drew breath, he would never leave Rebecca, bound by ties of duty and fate. He stood silently by his beloved’s side as she ruled with King Alexander. 

The Southern Kingdom prospered, as the sage Hohenheim had foretold.


	4. Rizbecca, Coffee Shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This [FANFICTION TROPE MASH-UP](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183225046841/fanfiction-trope-mash-up) prompt was requested by [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos/works). She requested numbers **4 (coffee shop AU)** and **34 (vacation fic)** with a rizbecca ship. 
> 
> Like what you read? Send me a prompt on my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). All likes, [reblogs](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183785962916/coffee-shop-au-and-holiday-for-rizbecca-if-youre), kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated.

Riza Hawkeye didn’t have to look like that. She didn’t have to stand before Rebecca with kind eyes, a disarming smile and enough tattoos to ensnare the unsuspecting barista’s overactive imagination.  Riza hadn’t had to cut her hair short in the year since she’d graduated East City High, Becca supposed, and she hadn’t needed to pierce that pretty pink tongue of hers with an austere piece of metal that Rebecca was dying to taste.

And yet, praise the sapphic powers that be, Riza had done all of those things, and Rebecca suspected, more.

“You in town for long?” the barista asked, hands fidgeting with the pen tucked away in her Curtis Coffees apron as she attempted to write Riza’s name on a cup.  The urge to jot her phone number on the clear plastic cup was overwhelming, but Becca restrained herself. It wasn’t as if she knew Riza was interested, except the rainbow flag pinned to the blonde’s stylish satchel winked hopefully at Rebecca, and the blonde lingered around the counter, fingers strumming seductively against the granite.

She should go for it. Shouldn’t she?

“Just taking a little vacation back at home,” Riza replied.  “It’s spring break.” Her voice, a sound Becca recalled as something small and unassuming was as smooth and sticky as honey.  Becca involuntarily licked her lips and fought a desperate battle within herself to remember how to write Riza’s name.

Rebecca could swear it was spelled (555) 867-5309.

“I heard that a bunch of East City High grads were headed to Aerugo beach this year,” she stated, smiling ridiculously at the tattooed bombshell across from her.  “Wish I could have gone too, but I had to work. Obviously. Would have been nice to see you there. Not that it’s not nice to see you here, of course.”

Becca forced her babbling lips shut and grew hot under the collar of her company polo as she pictured Riza Hawkeye in a bikini.  At first blush, she suspected not much had changed about the blonde’s toned physique, but the dark rings snaking up her left arm in striking contrast to her pale skin told a different story.  Pretty lines of crimson Latin script adorned the rings, and on her right bicep, a giant salamander peered back at Becca. She wanted to ask what it all meant, to solve the riddle of Riza Hawkeye once inch of skin at a time, trailing her fingertips up Riza’s thighs and touching the hidden flesh beneath the hem of her loose-fitting crop top.

“Oh please,” Riza laughed.  “The last thing I needed was a week on the beach with Roy and Maes.  All that testosterone and machismo. No thank you.”

“Well then, what do you need?”

The question fell low and slow from Rebecca’s dark lips combined with a piercing gaze that was anything but safe for work.  Becca tried to regret her impulsive comment but found her field of fucks utterly barren in light of the way Riza had taken to chewing her bottom lip.  She waited for a response, hips shifting as she imagined playing with the wispy ends of Riza’s pixie cut and pressing herself against the blonde’s soft curves.  A hint of floral perfume, the taste of candy-flavored chapstick, a sharp intake of breath as their upper bodies collided. The fantasy alone was worth the risk.

“I-”

“In my office now, Catalina!”  A shrill voice sounded from behind the raven-haired barista, and the young woman turned to find Izumi Curtis with her hands placed squarely on her hips.  One look at the cafe owner’s rigid scowl told Becca that this wasn’t about next week’s schedule. With a forlorn glance back at Riza, Rebecca began to dust off her resume as she made her way toward Izumi’s office.

* * *

Sadly, Rebecca admitted that she should have seen this coming.  In the three months since she’d been hired, Becca had been late more days than not, and hardly a week had gone by without a customer complaint regarding her sarcastic streak.  Surprisingly enough, shameless flirting had been the straw that broke Izumi’s back, and in any case, Curtis Coffees wasn’t the first place she’d been fired from. Knowing her mouth the way she did, Becca suspected it wouldn’t be the last.  

Yet, she’d miss the homey vibe of the cafe, the fresh banana bread and the good WiFi connection.  She’d also miss seeing Riza if ever her former classmate ventured back for another chai latte. Rebecca scoffed as she considered their exchange in hindsight.  All things being equal, she really should have given Riza her phone number.

“Hey!”  

A feminine voice sounded from behind Rebecca, and the young women turned to find a flushed Riza Hawkeye barreling toward the bus stop where she sat.

“I waited for you to come back,” she panted, clutching a stitch in her side, “but they told me you’d been fired!  I’m so sorry, Rebecca. I tried to explain to Ms. Curtis that it was my fault, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“It was just another shitty part-time job,”  Rebecca replied, making space on the dingy bus stop bench.  “And there’s nothing to apologize for. Now I get to enjoy my vacation too.”

That part was true enough.  Her rent was a problem for the first of the month.

“Listen,” Riza interjected, eyes fluttering up to meet Rebecca’s gaze as she took a seat on the bench.  “I know we weren’t close in high school. It was a tough time for me, and I struggled to process a lot of things.  But I admired how brave you were when you came out junior year. But by the time I figured out that I didn’t  _ just _ want to be like you, it felt like too much too late.  You know?”

Perfect dimples creased Rebecca’s cheeks as a hopeful smile stretched the corners of her mouth.  She looked back at Riza, pushing her slouchy beanie further back against tangles of thick raven curls and thanked her lucky stars.  “I never knew any of that,” Becca breathed happily.

“It’s true,” Riza chuckled.  She paused for a moment, no longer, and the words that had been on the tip of her pierced tongue spilled out.  “I really liked you, Rebecca. I still like you. I think you are funny, smart, gorgeous. And I promised myself that if I got another chance, I wouldn’t let the opportunity pass me by.”

On instinct, Rebecca reached for Riza’s hand, understanding the meaning behind her words as only a kindred spirit could.  Their slender fingers intertwined, soft palms pressing against one another. Becca spied Riza admiring her slick manicured nails, a luxury she was glad to splurge on if only for this momentous occasion.  It was a priceless moment, a perfect grain of sand trickling through the hourglass. There and gone in the blink of an eye.

Riza was going to ask for her number.  Becca just knew it.

“Would you like to go out tomorrow, you and me?  A date?”

At the word “date,” Rebecca’s breath caught within her well-endowed chest.  Riza’s chestnut eyes were steady but sincere, and she held her counterpart’s gaze like something precious.  As usual, Rebecca’s aim had been off-center, but not entirely out of the ballpark. A date was so much better than exchanging phone numbers.

“I’d love to!” Becca exclaimed.  Her answer opened the door to something liberating, exciting and new.


	5. Parental!Edwin, Massage and Pregnancy Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This [FANFICTION TROPE MASH-UP](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183225046841/fanfiction-trope-mash-up) prompt was anonmyously requested. This wonderful anon asked for numbers **26 (massage fic)** and **92 (kink)** with a edwin ship. Trigger warnings for **chronic pain** and **sacrilegious undertones**. This fic is also lemon flavored (explicit) near the end.
> 
> Special thanks to by [bearonthecouch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/works) for the read through!
> 
> Like what you read? Send me a prompt on my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). All likes, [reblogs](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/183901494196/edwin-26-and-92-please), kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are greatly appreciated.

Truth was a mixed bag. At least, that was Winry Rockbell’s opinion. In the years that followed the Promised Day, Ed described them as an amorphous being of indiscernible power, a haughty guardian of the veil between the physical and metaphysical realms or alternatively… “That uppity bastard who stole my leg, my arm and my brother’s body!”

Let it never be said that Edward Elric, adoring husband and doting father did not have a way with words.

Nevertheless, on the subject of the past, Winry kept her own counsel. She neither delved deeply into the regrets of the yesteryear nor dwelled on impracticalities like God, Truth or the meaning of life. Like the stalwart woman who raised her, Winry’s very existence was a testament to patience and persistence. And yet, she’d be remiss to deny that, while Truth might have been a capricious guardian of the scales, they were most certainly a shitty surgeon.

Ed’s arm was all the proof she needed. A mangled scar spilled across his shoulder, three inches deep with puckered flesh in all shades of ruddy red, yellow and purple. Nuts and wires had jutted out from his restored skin, and if anything, the internal damage proved permanent. Veins inextricably intertwined with threads of metal, a ghastly union of organic and manmade parts. Secretly and silently, the young automail engineer sometimes wondered if Truth had bestowed Ed with a blessing or a curse.

Bathed in moonlight, Winry waddled down the staircase of the Elrics’ Resembool home with heavy footfalls. One hand clutched her swollen stomach, and the other grasped the sturdy wooden banister. Even in darkness, Winry knew that the walls were pristine, covered in pretty pictures and pastel paints that suited the quiet, country life that Ed and Winry enjoyed when they could get away from the hustle and bustle of Rush Valley. And though baby Trisha’s nursery was only half finished, Winry could see Ed’s labor of love coming together, just as sure as she knew she was having a girl this time.

Winry smiled to herself as she appreciated the work that human hands had made.

“Ed,” Winry quietly called out from the foot of the staircase, careful not to wake little Yuriy.

“In here.”

The expecting mother made her way toward the sitting room and stumbled upon a familiar sight: Edward Elric had, yet again, turned her elegant sitting room into an office. Nevermind the actual study upstairs. Books were haphazardly strewn across the small space interspersed with parchment bearing nearly illegible scribbles in Ed’s native Amestrian as well as flawed Xingese characters. Winry had half a mind to chide her husband, but she refrained in light of the ice pack draped over his right shoulder.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked knowingly, coming close enough to admire the narrow spectacles Ed now wore when reading, the ones he obstinately swore he didn’t need.

“Nothing to worry about, Win,” the blond shot back, injecting confidence into his voice. “It’s just a little sore. The weather is changing, and Yuriy is getting bigger. Besides, I need to get this work done for Al. No time like the present.”

“You mean 3 a.m.” Winry shot back wryly as she placed her hands on her hips, “when our 2-year-old is finally sleeping, and we’ve got a full day of toddler tantrums ahead of us? Why didn’t you just tell me it was hurting again? Not for nothing, but I _am_ one of the best automail mechanics around. I think I know my way around human anatomy enough to ease a few tense muscles.”

Ed chuckled and rose from the couch, a merry glint in his light amber eyes. “Well, not for nothing, but you _are_ 25 weeks pregnant if I’m not mistaken.” He wasn’t. “What kind of husband would I be if I let you take care of me without taking care of you first?”

Ed moved quickly across the small living space and wrapped his arms around Winry. His fingers moved restlessly, seeking purchase in the folds of her lightweight nightgown. With eyes wide shut, she hummed as Ed reached around to massage the tight muscles of her lower back. Winry buried her face in the soft cotton of his shirt, relishing the faint scent of sweat and freshly cut grass. She loved Ed. She loved being tenderly caressed by the warm hands that had never hesitated to pick her up when she was down. To protect her just as she patched him back together time and time again.

Winry reluctantly summoned her wits in spite of Ed’s efforts and a raging case of momnesia.

“Not so fast, Edward,” Winry interjected, gently stepping back and placing a firm hand on her husband’s chest. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder. Then, you can take me upstairs and have your way with your bloated, pregnant wife.”

The glint in Ed’s eyes was inexplicably obscene. “That a promise?”

Winry rolled her eyes despite the smirk on her lips.

“Take a seat, Fullmetal,” she said, gesturing toward the couch with an authoritative edge to her voice. Though he practiced restraint, Ed’s features darkened hungrily as he took a seat on the floor near Winry’s usual perch on the couch, and if she had reminded him of a certain former commanding officer at that moment, he didn’t show it.

* * *

The bible according to Pinako Rockbell was pretty damn clear when it concerns the intersection of automail and pain. It was merely the body’s way of communicating that something wasn’t working properly. And though Winry still struggled to comprehend Edward’s refusal to dignify the pain he occasionally felt, she was all too familiar with his anatomy, right down to the battle scars hidden beneath the hem of his well-pressed shirts.

The young mother’s hands kneaded and pressed at her husband’s scarred skin, searching for knots and avoiding the places where she knew metal was permanently embedded within his flesh. As her strokes turned long and languid, Winry felt Ed relax under her deft hands. His arm and shoulder began to pulse as she stimulated blood flow alongside delicious friction and finally, she finished with a series of firm taps.

“Oh God, Winry,” Ed gasped. “Do you have to tap it like that? You’re killing the mood.”

“What mood?” she teased. “Between the stretch marks and my swollen ankles, I don’t see how I can be the least bit appealing right now. Then again, you are stuck with me. I guess I can’t blame you for making the best of it.”

Winry’s words carried a self-deprecating edge, and she laughed with a good-natured timbre that belied the harsh truths sugarcoated by her humor. The second time mother knew she’d grown bigger faster this time around. Her ankles were puffy, and the stretch marks on her tummy had reasserted themselves in angry streaks of red. Between her business and Yuriy, Winry found it difficult to think of herself as a sexual being, and honestly, Ed was more a partner in the trenches of childrearing than a lover now.

“Making the best of it? Of our life together?” Ed scoffed. “What makes you think that you aren’t exactly the person I want to be with? _Especially_ when you’re pregnant.”

“Especially when I’m pregnant?” Winry shot back. “My stomach’s big. My boobs are ridiculous. In another month or so, I’ll be unable to see my feet. Enlighten me, oh great alchemist, what’s there to like about all that?”

Ed paused in a rare show of speechlessness as he shifted at Winry’s feet and allowed his eyes to trace the outline of her figure. It had been years since their first sleepless night together, but the way he looked at her was wondrous, reminiscent of their first fumbling time as well as the many happy endings they’d enjoyed after that. Winry felt reborn when she considered herself from Ed’s perfective and saw all that she considered a nuisance as ancient symbols of power, unequaled by modern medicine or other mystic arts.

He took her hands in his and turned them, running his thumbs across her palms. “I see hands that give life,” he said, kissing her callouses. “And strong arms that cradle it lovingly.”

Ed turned his attention to her feet and massaged her ankles tenderly. “I see legs that stood up for me when I couldn’t stand on my own.” Winry shivered as she felt her husband place light kisses up her ankles, calves and thighs. He gently pushed her nightgown up to reveal her round stomach, and as Winry’s pulse quickened, the baby inside her belly stirred. Ed chuckled and pressed his hands against her, grinning as he felt his child’s movement.

“I love you like this,” he stated, almost breathless. “I love seeing our child growing inside you, and you’ve got this raw, powerful beauty that makes me crazy. You’re glowing, Winry.”

She started to tell him that it was just her acid reflux, but with those words, Ed kissed the top of her thigh near the plain white fabric of her panties. Slowly, his tongue pressed against her, and Winry couldn’t hide the soft sigh which followed. She leaned back, enjoying Ed’s attention as his mouth began sucking and pulling at her skin. As was only fair, he repeated the same series on the inside of her other thigh, moving ever closer to her warm center.

As her breathing grew fevered Ed delved deeper, running his lips over the outside of her underwear in a way that made Winry sigh. He sucked the fabric, and his fingers toyed with the low waistband, bowed by her growing baby bump. Ed’s hand settled on the width of her hips, and again his hand caressed her belly as his tongue lapped at her through a pesky layer of cotton.

Winry moaned and pleaded for her pleasure until Ed finally kissed her clit.

“Oh, God!” Winry exclaimed, feeling both breathless and beautiful in the eyes of the person who mattered most.

He smirked in response, all humor and bravado intact. “I prefer Ed.”

Winry laughed in a throaty register as she gave in to her husband’s skillful ministrations. Pushing her panties to one side, his tongue set out to do its best, returning the favor for all Winry’s earlier efforts. Ed was insufferable at times, Winry knew, and yet, as he cracked a blasphemous joke and ate her like it was his last supper, she couldn’t help but revel in her good fortune. If no higher power had brought them together during their difficult childhoods or made them as mirror images of one another, being with him was a miracle all the same.


End file.
